“Almost 40 children are being held hostage by militants in Gaza.”
– The Israeli Times, 22 November 2023

Come with me across the sea, to a place where east meets west;
And disparate cultures now converge like ripened grapes together pressed;
And ancient vice and knightly virtue, each one has a part to play;
Though much is taken from the past, this tale is taken from today.

There was a man from Syria, his father Greek with vast resources,
His Latin name was Theseus, who stabled winning teams of horses;
He turned the arid land to gold, by digging wells and dredging ditches;
His mother’s heart was steadfast, true; her soul not bought with worldly riches.

Well-read was he in Aristotle, engineering, architecture,
Also he possessed much skill, the living arts of agriculture;
In politics, he was astute, and in the face of tribal tensions,
Diplomacy he wielded-well to broker peace between the factions.

A special envoi to the crown, and much-admired in chivalrie,
He went to quell marauding hordes, armed with western armorie,
Which he discharged with awe and skill, earning both respect and fear,
His reputation quickly spread, this Theseus the Rocketeer.

He fought the cruel barbarian, and conquering a distant land,
Wed the daughter of the Queen, and all were in the Queen’s command;
And with his bride, Ippolyta, flanked by warring Amazons,
To his native land returned, and this is where our story dawns…

The Procession

Now I should here describe at length the clamor of the battle scene,
When Theseus expelled the horde, and wed the daughter of the Queen;
But I have many lines to plow, and weary oxen on my yoke,
So let me jump right to the chase, and when our gentle hero spoke.

Ahead he spies, upon the road, a group of women lined in pairs,
Their heartfelt moans were plainly heard, and from their knees they offered prayers;
A dour look upon each face; and cloaked in drab, ill-omened threads;
They clasped their sacred beads to heart, with darkened veils draped o’er their heads.

By pity was our hero moved, and as his tears began to flow;
Tenderly he met their gaze; his heart began to break in two;
And so he sighed, and said: “Dear women, why such sad and mournful cries?
Could it be the joyous song of my return you so despise?”

One by one the women ceased their requiems and facing East,
They turned again to Theseus, and gradually their sobbing ceased,
And then the foremost lady stood, her eyes half-swollen shut and red,
With bloodless face, she swooned a bit, and this is what that woman said:

“God forbid our tears drown out the joyful day of your return,
But our distress deserves account, so you might know and well-discern;
For while you conquered distant lands, and concord reigned in full supply,
Suddenly, above our walls, our foe descended from the sky.

“At once our men were overcome, for they were numbered just a few,
Then to the desert dogs of war, our husbands’ breathless bodies threw;
They carried off our children fair, and to their labyrinth retreated,
O, will you not avenge these crimes, and see this enemy defeated!”

The woman choked upon her tears, and fell upon her bended knee,
Inconsolable she was, and he was saddened by her plea;
He struggled to console her grief, and as she struggled to discuss;
He helped her to her feet again; she sighed and then continued thus:

“Yet two of them remain behind, they seem abandoned by their corps,
Despite our cries, they rummage through the remnants of our cellar store;
Depriving us of peace and all our precious food and wine they’re robbing,
Too cowardly to face our group of poor and lowly widows sobbing.”

Now Theseus, like lightning, speeds towards the dark and dismal hollows,
And then Ippolyta (as thunder after lightning always follows);
Ippolyta dismounts her steed, and with her strident, warring maids,
Launches heaven’s hell with several rounds of rocket-launched grenades.

Now Theseus moves on the scene, and in the rubble of the blast,
His memory dusts off a pair of faces from his childhood past,
Long ago, torn from their home… now both with bloody hands and head,
Beneath a pile of rubble lie; not quite living, not quite dead.

The Prisoners

Now, let us breath a grateful sigh, and with our story carry on,
Towards this wounded pair draw nigh, named Archibald and Palamon;
Now their accusers circle round, but things aren’t always as they seem,
So let’s not write them off too soon, nor judge them light, nor rashly deem.

For sparse is time to understand all the things which did forego,
Relating to their own abduction, suffered many years ago;
Now both appear to still possess their youth and saintly dispositions;
In time the truth will fully out, with much more at their depositions.

Escorted by Ippolyta, they’re taken to a vast estate,
Locked inside a prison cell, to face their fortune and their fate;
Come evening, through the window bars, there shone a vision in plain sight,
A maiden fairer than a rose, fairer than the morning light.

The sister of Ippolyta, named Emelye, the future Queen,
Praying on her Rosary, she strolls across the garden greene,
And while she prays each mystery, with every Ave beckoning,
The prisoners respond aloud, their Holy Mary echoing.

And what was lost is found again, ancient wounds have been restored,
The wasteland is a fertile ground, thanks to the Mercy of the Lord;
Hidden secrets are revealed, broken wings are now in flight;
The midnight path has been lit up, illumined by the starry night!

The Contest

Now Archibald and Palamon, entering Our Lady’s court,
Armed with arms in suits of armor, join the knights in knightly sport,
With silver from their helmet tops, to silver boots to guard their feet,
Each one with a horse to ride, each one ready to compete.

The courtly knights displayed such virtue: pietye and charitye,
With courtesye and chastitye, and also generositye;
That when they prayed at Holy Mass, and there before the altar knelt,
That never anyone would doubt if virtue in this low world dwelt.

They trained with sword and walked the beam and one-by-one their rivals oust,
And with a blaring trumpet blast, they meet in center court to joust,
With pointed lance in armor bright and inlaid cross of damascene,
In competition with the knights, to win the honor of the Queen.

Now Palamon and Archibald, their hearts were filled with puritye;
Their banners both are lifted high, before the eyes of Emelye;
Both unrivaled were the two, like metals forged in perfect mien:
But just one champ can be deserving of the blessing of the Queen.

The two face-off at fateful distance, on their horses in their armor,
Galloping at full-tilt, riding, clashing in a crash and clamor;
The lance of Palamon is shattered, in the thunderous collision,
Upon the heart of Archibald, where grisly grows a great contusion.

Now in the force and fray of jousting, Palamon falls hard to ground;
But Archibald stays on his mount, suffering his grievous wound;
So Lady Fortune first appeared to favor him and pledge her troth;
And so he rides to Emelye, to claim his prize, to take his oath.

As he approaches, to be knighted, with sacred promises to keepe,
Instead of gracefully dismounting, he falls into a bloodye heape;
The ladies in the gallery cry out in shock and deep remorse,
A raven circles overhead, above his most bewildered horse.

The early moon cries out in song, for he has given up the ghost,
Fallen from this world departed, lifted by the heavenly Host,
In Mercy Archibald will rest in peace with our immortal dead,
And, knighted, Palamon prepares for more foreboding things ahead.

The Sacrifice

Theseus and Palamon, to find the children hostages,
Face the desert winds of sand, in search of subtle vestiges,
A silver buckle, sharded lace, by the children left behind,
The entrance of the Labyrinth, and hidden caves, at last, to find.

Ippolyta has formed a line, and with her colored flagged unfurled,
The men have courage to engage the monsters of the netherworld;
And from the entrance of the cave, into the Labyrinth they grope,
And soon the blinding corridor is lit-up by a ray of Hope.

Armed with Faith invincible, but also with a spool of thread,
To help the men retrace their steps, and back to safety safely tread;
They walk down every corridor, but come upon the place they started,
For every passage always leads them back to where they first departed.

In the Chaos of the maze, when our hero turns around,
To reconnoiter with his friend, Palamon cannot be found;
Palamon has lost his way, like Sisyphus beneath the stone,
Or Icarus before the sun, so Theseus must go alone.

Seized by loneliness and dread, our hero tries not to despair,
But overshadowed are his prayers, by the thickness of the air,
And human bones that line the floor, and emanate their ghoulish smell,
Vanquishing all signs of hope, like Dante at the Gates of Hell.

And through his wanderings, alas, he’s come no further than before,
Then forming in the gloom ahead, there stands the dreaded Minotaur;
With razor teeth, and sharpened claw, and iron horns upon its head,
With breath of smoke, and eyes of fire, which flash to yellow, then to red.

Buckling at the knees, he falls, but deeply kindled by his ire,
He rises to his feet, to save the children is his sole desire;
He’s no match for the Minotaur, who’s gorged on many living things,
Including many humble men, sacrificed by selfish kings.

But just before the monster strikes, which would have been his certain end,
Palamon arrives, at last, just in time to save his friend,
He comes upon it from behind, and grabs it by its bushy tail,
And spears it through its sickened heart, the mortal evil to impale.

And for these two stouthearted men, we near the end of this tale too,
They’re off to find the children now, they bid the Minotaur adieu;
Then up ahead they hear the sound of children down the corridor,
Like daylight in the underworld, bursting through an open door.

Theseus the Warrior, guides them most effectively,
While from the rear, our Palamon, takes his stand most selflessly;
Yea, he makes his final stand, the Knight repels the rushing horde;
The children reach Ippolyta, and rest behind her flaming sword.

Palamon lays down his life, so that the other ones may live;
Indeed, of all the loves there are, there is no greater love to give;
So roll away the heavy stone, and let his soul rise from the grave;
And heed this tale of Theseus, and Palamon the good and brave!

Jonathan Weinberg studied literature at the University of Victoria, in British Columbia, Canada, and Rhetoric at the Catholic University of America, in Washington, DC. He currently live in the Kansas City area and works at the U.S. Treasury.